


On Our Way

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drunkenness, Light-Hearted, M/M, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-07 00:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Gildor looks forward to getting married, but the wedding doesn't end as he expected.





	On Our Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



The building had an eerie atmosphere to it in the light of Tyelperion. Many of the windows were still glass-less and most of the rooms still empty. The bed in their bedchamber-to-be looked all the more inviting for it - pristine, fresh-smelling and so temptingly wide - and the big golden harp standing alone under the tall windows of the parlour looked like a creature out of some strange dream, one Maglor could evoke true marvels from. 

Maglor took Gildor's hand as they inspected the shell of their future home, a one-storey villa built around an internal courtyard and surrounded by a larger garden. They smiled to each other. They weren't supposed to be there, they weren't supposed to see the building before it was completely finished, but they couldn't resist a little transgression. 

Maglor went up to the harp and drew his hand up the ridges of its long glinting pillar; Gildor could already imagine the evenings he would spend listening to Maglor's music in that room, watching him as he played.

Fëanor had insisted on building a house for them, and on making it luxurious, though Gildor himself didn't particularly care for a lavish residence and suspected the months-long decorating was more an attempt on Fëanor's part to delay Maglor's departure from his paternal home. Maglor confirmed his suspicion, explaining that his father needed time to get used to the idea that he would no longer live in his house. Gildor _had a feeling_ that he never would. He did account himself lucky that Fëanor had not objected to Maglor marrying a member of Indis' household, and not a very distinguished one at that – not a lord, a poet or even an athlete, but a mere retainer with no accomplishments to his name. His parents were by no means low-born, of course, but they didn't rank as high as Ingwë and Finwë's lines. 

It was his tress of dark golden hair, standing out in the court of Tirion even against the other golden-haired Vanyar present, that had guided Maglor's eyes to him, and made him notice his smile, which wrapped itself around Maglor's heart, drawing him to Gildor's arms. 

Gildor grinned at the memory and patted the side of his head, where his right-slanting braid curved downwards. He had stammered like a child seeing a Vala up close for the first time when Maglor addressed him, some time later, and made it very clear that what he felt was more than a passing fancy for a pretty face scurrying about his grandfather's house. The intensity of Maglor's gaze alone had been hard to withstand. That same gaze was on him now when he looked up again. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he said the first thing that came to his mind. 

“I...fear what your father will give to me as a wedding gift.”

“Why should you fear?” Maglor frowned, bouncing his fingers on the strings of the harp without actually plucking them, but there was amusement in his voice.

Gildor delayed his answer, musing that the word 'fear' was an exaggeration, but it wasn't entirely out of place, either: Fëanor was unpredictable. “I fear, because I don't believe you inherited a penchant for the theatrical from your mother.” 

He cocked an eyebrow up at Maglor, who smirked. Maglor had interrupted a poetry contest in order to sing a love song for him that half of Tirion heard, thus turning what Gildor had welcomed as cosy, quiet, and very private tryst between them into something that went far beyond his brightest hopes. 

He hadn't even dreamt of a wedding. After Indis released him from her service, he would have been perfectly content with spending his life at Maglor's side, doubling as his attendant if Maglor so wished. He would have been content to balance his life between the reserve expected of someone in his position and the inevitable prominence of a son of Fëanor.

“I can still order you around if you miss being a royal servant so much,” Maglor said, in a lower tone he had used until then.

His voice pulsated more in Gildor's head than in his ears, and it made him shiver. 

“Kiss me,” Maglor demanded.

Gildor blushed – that simple demand aroused him more than he would have been comfortable to admit to anyone who wasn't Maglor – and stood on tip-toes to cover Maglor's mouth with his own. Maglor let go of his hand, and wrapped both arms around his waist, pulling him up, and up, almost sweeping him off the floor, until they were on the verge of tipping back and falling onto a cloud-like rug that could have come only off the body of one of the great white bears that populated the cold north.

“My father will give you an adequate present, I'm sure,” Maglor breathed against his lips, kissed him again, and went on, “but I could ask him what he plans to give you if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

Gildor considered, tempted to say yes. “No no...I will try to savour surprise...and live through it, hopefully.”

*

Laurelin was waning, putting one more day behind him. 

Nineteen days from now, the wedding feast would almost be over, and Maglor and he would be an actual wedded pair. 

Not much would change in their daily life, not after they had been together for over twenty years already, living together for most of that time. 

With no more duties to attend to, Gildor had taken up calligraphy, and was glad when Maedhros had volunteered to teach him before his father could. There was no real usefulness to the effort, and he would always prefer to hear Maglor's compositions from his sweet, crafty mouth, let himself drift off while his voice filled him, and the way it cut and coiled through the air had something of the divine to it. But he liked reliving Maglor's songs in the quiet of their shared rooms, and writing them down in his own hand meant that he would own a version of them that no-one else could have, made all the more intimate when Maglor added notes on the margins of the text for him alone to peruse. 

He laid his quill down and looked out from the window of Maglor's private sitting room in Finwë's house, where he had moved after his relationship with Maglor had become an official affair. From up there their new house was a tiny dot in the dark green hills outside of the walls of Tirion. If he focused, he could make out the shape of it and see the workers going in and out, carrying large wrapped-up lumps between them. He had already packed his few more treasured possessions to bring with him – many of them Maglor's own presents.

Not much would change in their daily life: Maglor would still be the most accomplished singer among the Noldor, Maglor's father would still not miss any occasion to claim his share of Maglor's love, and Maglor would still go with his father and brothers on long trips, from time to time. 

But they would be tied by a true bond, something they were going to forge between themselves, the most complete form of union, that no-one could break, no matter how closely related. 

His heart swelled with happiness at the mere thought. 

_Only_ nineteen days remained now. 

His parents were due to arrive any moment with his wedding garb, their own present for Maglor, and their unshakable support. His mother had no doubt a poem of her own ready for the occasion, too. He had wished so many times he had inherited her talent for poetry that he would have been surprised if he didn't do it now, but the wish held none of the bitterness it had at other times in his life.

His mother would surely compose something memorable. Elemmírë had known Maglor when he was studying music in Valmar and then on Taniquetil itself, when he was still so young many didn't take him seriously.

“People who don't take me seriously are in for a rude awakening.”

The voice brushed against the shell of his ear. It was lucky he had been daydreaming rather than writing. Gildor started in the chair, narrowly missing the inkwell with his flailing left hand. 

“Something far too...discordant after a pleasant daydream, I agree.”

Maglor giggled – still close to his ear – then dropped to his knees and laid his head down on Gildor's thighs and heaved a dramatic sigh. “I drifted off, too, during my lesson. I missed a note, a single note in a very simple passage. Ecthelion giggled, thinking I didn't hear him, I suppose. He won't laugh when I assign him his next exam piece.”

Gildor carded his hand through Maglor's thick curls. “Don't torment the poor boy.”

Maglor placed a kiss on his clothed knee. “You didn't even notice the kitchen maid brought our dinner.”

“I would have waited for you regardless.”

*

“I'm sorry,” Gildor said, or tried to. The words didn't sound quite right, or maybe it was just an impression – being carried in Maglor's arms felt a lot like being lulled by cool water, or falling slowly in the danger-less darkness of dreams.

“I didn't think you had such low tolerance for alcohol.”

Gildor didn't either, before Maglor's brothers, his cousins and then his own cousins and friends had poured him toast after toast of miruvor that he couldn't quite refuse. He wasn't even sure how he'd gotten to their new house, could barely recall what it looked like all furnished up from the tour Fëanor had given them before the start of the banquet, unveiling the biggest – in size – of his many presents to them. 

“Where's – where's the ring,” he mumbled, feeling for the one hidden pocket in his loose-fitting garb.

“It's on your finger, little one.”

Gildor raised both hands and saw the gleam of the ring on the index finger of his right hand. He couldn't quite focus on it, and the contours of the fine carvings were blurred, but feeling its shape with his fingers was enough. Fëanor's official gift had been a seal with a new emblem for him and Maglor as a married couple, one to represent the both of them. Halfway through the banquet Fëanor had dragged him away from the hall, and into a low-lit corridor. Then he had stared and stared and stared at Gildor until Gildor felt a chill run down his spine, but just as he opened his mouth to offer words of gratitude in hopes that they would ward off anything unsavoury, Fëanor pushed the ring into his palm, and hugged him. 

The ring was an exact replica of the one Maglor had received on the day he had come of age. Gildor's head spun even more if he tried to think about the significance of it. There was a heap of significance to it, and maybe it would cause him trouble too, and part of him wished Fëanor had possessed a sense of measure, that he hadn't spent years looking down on him as an intruder tolerated with ill grace only to put him on the same level as his son with one tiny, simple gift. But he would have lied if he had said receiving the ring didn't rejoice him. He would dwell on its attached weight in the morning. 

He blinked when the world stopped rocking him – Maglor had eased him onto the bed. It was softer than it looked, softer at any rate than Gildor remembered it looking a few weeks before, and the sheets smelled of rose petals, mellow and vibrant, perfect for love-making.

“It sucks.”

“The ring?”

“No...I won't...– mber...that I won't remember the night...tomorrow,” he forced himself to explain, though his last words were slurred. 

“It's no matter. I will make sure to memorise every detail. And I will make a song about it. And you will write it down. And I can do everything I do to you tonight again Tomorrow night.”

Gildor breathed in sharply.

“Unless you mind if I have my way with you regardless, of course.”

Gildor shook his head, a little too vigorously for the state he was in. The world spun wildly around him. It took him a few moments and several deep breaths to remember he was on a bed and couldn't possibly be spiralling down a black hole. 

The prospect of being fucked by his husband while not in full possession of his mind aroused him not a little, twice as strongly if he imagined how he would wake up, how his body would remember the night even if his mind wouldn't. He _hoped_ he would still feel the friction of Maglor's cock up his arse, that his nipples would be raw and his thighs matted in Maglor's seed. That he would wear Maglor's scent on his body, stronger than the stink of alcohol on his breath. And then he realised. He had been disappointed not to feel anything extraordinary after they had exchanged their vows, no major change. He had expected something, a new awareness to envelop his soul or his mind, a spark at least. Now he understood. There couldn't be more between them than this trust. The perfect ease with which he entrusted himself to his lover, his partner, his husband, in his most vulnerable state, and the certainty that he would emerge out of it even happier than he was before. 

He wanted to tell Maglor how much he loved him, but first he only made a long tight-lipped mumble then his tongue got stuck on the 'm' and the sound was almost the same. 

Maglor chuckled.

By the descent of his fingers on his chest Gildor understood that he was being undressed. He wet his lips. Maglor kissed them, then brought some blissfully cold water to his lips and helped him drink it. 

Content, Gildor let himself sink in the pillows, and in the echo of the sensations Maglor's touch stirred in him, delicious even blurred as they were by the haze of his intoxication. He managed to hold on until Maglor entered him, thrust inside him in one steady long wonderful movement, then passed out with his lips turned upwards.

**Author's Note:**

> 'I love you' is 'melin tyë' or 'melinyet' in Quenya.


End file.
